


Angel Interceptor

by KirkyPet



Category: First Contact (1996), Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, is it an AU?, not necessarily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KirkyPet/pseuds/KirkyPet
Summary: Data: According to our astrometric readings, we are in the mid-21st century. From the radioactive isotopes in the atmosphere, I would estimate we have arrived approximately seventy years after the Third World War.Riker: Makes sense. Most of the major cities have been destroyed, very few governments left, six hundred million dead. No resistance.Picard: They were firing at the surface. Location?Riker: Southern hemisphere, Australian continent. Looks like a missile complex in South Australia.Picard: Missile complex - ? The date. Data, I need to know the exact date.Data: April 4th, 2063.Riker: April 4th, the day before first contact.Data: Precisely.Dr Crusher: Then the missile complex must be where Max Rockatansky is building his warp ship!Picard: That's what they came here to do; Stop first contact!





	1. Chapter 1

After a ten year absence, it appeared that Max was actually alive and well. His return certainly made a stir, in more ways than one.

*

So, _apparently_ the original Interceptor was destroyed near to an abandoned air base near what was once Adelaide. Not a bad place to get wrecked, as long as you survive the crash and whatever caused it. Thankfully, he did.

There, Max found parts and equipment, books and records -

\- he intended to rebuild a car, but a whole new kind of Interceptor was the result.

And then he _flew_ home.

*

Home, up to a point. He never moved into the Citadel, as such; none of them really ever expected him to. No, of course Max preferred to live alone.

But he kind of settled down, which was a big change from his old way of doing things. Getting on in years will do that, she guessed. He found himself a nice spot a few clicks away, within scope view of the towers.

There, he tinkered.

As the years went by, Max became fixated with _speed_.

Still trying to run away - that was his little joke. Furiosa simply agreed that it’s good to have a hobby. She always had plenty to occupy her but, with Max’s solitary ways and his habit of hearing voices in his head, she worried about him if he wasn’t occupied.

Well, either way, all his flying machines and gadgets were certainly useful.

The Air Squad had seemed a little frivolous at first, but it had impressed the neighbouring factions into aligning themselves with the Citadel.

Furiosa smiled to herself, thinking of how far they’d come over the years. Who knew, when they’d taken on Joe’s old stronghold - expecting to be wiped out at any moment by a War Boy rebellion, or Gas Town takeover, or even plain old bad luck - that one day they’d be _here_.

This.

An alliance of Wasteland tribes, spanning territory almost five thousand clicks wide and ten long. The Citadel territory was greater now than Joe would’ve ever dreamed - and had been achieved through diplomacy.

Well, mainly diplomacy.

It was still called ‘the Citadel’, despite their best efforts to find a more inclusive name for the alliance. Problem was, as time went on and long-range communications improved, it became obvious that there were dozens of ‘United Federations of the People’ or variations on the theme.

Plus, “We are the Citadel” was a clearer greeting over the crackly airwaves and _much_ shorter to spell out in morse code.

She - Furiosa - had FLOWN.

Impressive it certainly was; a statement that; yes, we COULD be dropping bombs on your heads, but here we are bringing gifts of salad vegetables and hard cheese to our new friends, isn’t that nice? 

Purely practically, it was her new favourite way to travel long distances. Her world had got a whole lot bigger, for a time. She’d been on diplomatic missions to the Eastern Alliance and Uluru City, even as far north as the Botanists before it’d all gone to shit again.

Shame. Back to defending her own little patch.

But it’d been a year since the Eastern factions had sent a missile their way. Furiosa still hoped. Things had got better once, they would improve again.

*

“It’s _got_ to work. It makes too much sense - Fury?”

“Hmm?”

“Come back” he smiled. “You were miles away.”

She was, too. Max carried his maps on bits of old cloth, but Furiosa kept hers in her head. She’d just been wondering what lay beyond.

“Sorry. What were you saying? New rockets?”

“Faster than _lightspeed_ rockets” Max nodded, folding his arms. “I’m serious.”

“You’re crazy, that’s what you are.” Furiosa made a derisive snort and got more comfortable in her seat. 

“Says the woman who made a treaty with the _Buzzards_ ” he retorted.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re comparing a physical impossibility to - ”

“ - to manipulating the fabric of space. Yeah I am!” he interrupted, looking way too pleased with himself.

Furiosa blinked at him and concluded that, for once, she must be more drunk than he was. Then she groaned and reached for the bottle anyway. She’d NEED a drink if he was planning to explain this -


	2. Chapter 2

Max stared disconsolately into his tin cup. He’d told himself that he wouldn’t always feel this way. That SOMEDAY it would get better.

But the cup was empty and his stomach still churned and his ears buzzed at the thought of it.

Uggggh -

He’d always hated it; ever since that passenger plane when he was a tiny little nipper - full of loud people with too many elbows.

An’ - an’ then there was that mad bastard of a Gyro Captain back when he was a young ‘un.

Max sighed limply, rested his chin on his knuckles as the alcohol made its effects felt in every way but the intended one.

Wonder if he’s still flittin’ around in that whirligig of a copter? Nah. Not likely. He was a good fella. The good ones never make it.

He shivered and poured another drink. As if he didn’t have enough to fret over, he would have a passenger tomorrow.

Right on cue, there she was. He looked up guiltily. His very own Jiminy Cricket, a conscience with a buzzcut and metal appendages. It’d be really good if she didn’t die tomorrow.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough? I’m not going up that thing with a drunk pilot.”

Uhhhh he did not want to do this.

“I’m not going up there sober” he grumbled. But nah, she was right. No more for him, until AFTER the test run. They might well be celebrating then.

He slid the cup away, stumbled to his feet and made for the jukebox.

He’d thought - he’d THOUGHT that if he was in charge, if HE was flying the thing, that he’d feel more in control. Safer. Turns out it doesn’t quite work that way. He might be in charge, but there’s some things you just can’t predict. And the responsibility - ? He didn’t mind flying alone so much, but with a passenger the stakes were almost intolerably high. Especially THIS passenger. A VIP. A VVVVIP.

He’d flown with Furiosa before, but this was gonna be a whole different game. He doubted whether parachutes would help them if anything went wrong.

Alright - sober-up music - what’s it gonna be - ? He scrolled through the eclectic collection of discs the Citadel had accrued over the last twenty, near thirty years. The kids learned their letters by putting them in alphabetical order, Fury said. Good idea that.

Hmm, T -  time for T, hehe. Okay what we got here - ? Taylor, James, Koko, R. Dean - Oooh James Taylor. Always been a sucker for the ol’ JT -

_Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain. I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end_

He leaned on the jukebox as the familiar old melody washed over him, unraveling his tightly coiled nerves. Hadn’t heard this one in years -

_Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground_

Wait, what?

“There you are! We’ve been looking for you all over!” came a cheerful voice from the door, as he kicked and thumped the jukebox. Oh, hey Cheedo.

“Well. There’s a song I can’t play again” he mumbled. 

What the fuck, JT? He’d always liked that song. Used to play it drivin’. Never noticed _that_ line.

“What you doing in here?” Toast demanded. “Getting a bit of Dutch courage?”

“And what you playing THAT for? Can’t you read? It’s on the _banned_ list.” Dag pointed at the paper pinned to the wall. “Look, right there - just below ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’”

A banned list?

“Ace said they were bad for morale” Cheedo explained, in a slightly milder tone. “He’s got his own pre-flight listening. There it is.”

Max peered at the chalk writing on the corrugated iron wall. Goddammit, Ace - Iron Maiden, Ozzy Osborne, Frank Sinatra? Fine then. He selected ‘Aces High’ and slammed the play button like it’d offended him.

He stepped out for some fresh air, and met Furiosa at the threshold.

“Max, are you still in here?” she sighed, her arms folded disapprovingly. “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “You know me - I don’t HAVE regrets.” 

“Hey, what’s that?” Dag asked pointing towards the sky. 

Toast peered upward. “Oh, that’s the constellation Lyra.”

“No” her voice unusually high. “I mean THAT!”

And the sky lit up like Armageddon.


End file.
